The Irresistible Force Paradox
by chromeknickers
Summary: What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Banter, undeniable chemistry, and the possibility for something more. A collection of Shenny drabbles and ficlets.
1. For Once

Herein lies a collection of Shenny drabbles and ficlets.

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**The Irresistible Force Paradox**

What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Logically, if there were such a thing as an irresistible force, then no object could be considered immovable; vice versa, if there were such a thing as an immovable object, then there could be no irresistible force to move it. Herein lies the paradox. However, if both concepts were to exist in the same universe, then, _undoubtedly_, the two would seek each other out.

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**Just Once**

She stands in the fluorescent-lit laundry room and she folds. She folds socks and shorts and tank tops and anything – anything to get her mind off the present.

Once – just once – she would like a break in life. And she thought she had finally found it: a bit part in a television pilot; a stepping stone to greater things. But to what?

Instead her hopes were dashed, her dreams unfulfilled.

Someone else was given her role, and she was passed over – for someone's friend, for someone's girlfriend, for someone's lover.

Years wasted.

She slams a folded pair of socks onto the table and feels the sobs begin to bubble up her chest. Her eyes begin to water, but she puts a stop to it, slamming the dryer door shut with her foot.

Tactile release.

Then _he_ walks in. Of course he does: it's Saturday night. He stands in the doorway, watching her curse and kick with a creased brow. Pondering, wondering. She is violent, though, and he wants nothing to do with that, to do with her, and so he shrinks away.

She spins around and spots him just standing there, hugging his laundry basket close, edging towards the exit. He is all limbs and sharp angles and ridiculous t-shirts and frowns and smartass comebacks and explanations for why the world works the way it does – why everything happens the way it does.

And she doesn't want that. She doesn't want to hear that – hear any of it.

But she spits everything out, all at once. _Everything_. And she knows that she must sound crazy. Positively. She is ranting and raving and frothing at the mouth – cursing the producers, the director, the writers, the actors, and the world in general.

He listens because he is forced to. He cannot retreat with his back against the wall, so he just stands there, looking startled – looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. He takes a step sideways, but she won't let him. She is on him in an instant, projecting all her anger, all her resentment, all her failures onto him.

It is wrong. Fuck. She knows it is wrong, but she cannot stop. She cannot stop the ranting and the screaming because if she does – if she does – she'll cry. She'll cry until the well runs dry; she'll cry until her body emaciates itself. And then what will she do? What will she do?

He just stands there: frightened, confused, and wondering what to say – or when to say it because she is not letting him get a word in edgewise.

And suddenly she is seized by the sheer violence of her actions, of her words, and she stops. She takes a breath and she asks him what he thinks. And, after a moment of nonplussed silence, he speaks. He speaks in physics terms, in the language of mathematics, and in nonsensical scientific bullshit. And she knows that he is trying to comprehend her situation the best way he knows how, but she snaps.

She just fucking snaps.

She wants to scream at him; seize him by the throat and throttle him. Shake him. Break him. Make him see. Make him _understand_.

Once – just once – could he feel what she feels, believe what she believes, perceive what she perceives, look, experience, examine, and for once; _just once_, could he understand what it means to be her – to be human?

With all her foibles exposed, could he just once stop with all his analyses, his judgements, his equations, his fucking algorithms and for just once say 'Penny, I'm sorry. If I only I could make things better for you. I promise that it will all be okay'?

But he can't; he won't – at least not without prompting.

And maybe she doesn't want that. Maybe she doesn't want the customary 'It will get better'. Because what if it doesn't? What if this is all that there is? What if this is the best that she can do?

The thoughts cripple her, and she collapses to the floor, hugging her knees into her chest. And she cries. And she cries and she cries and she cries and—

She feels him awkwardly slide down beside her – all gangly limbs – stretching, scrunching, trying to fit in beside her. And this feeling of him just sitting next to her brings on a fresh wave of tears. She raises her face from her knees and blindly launches herself at him, clutching onto his stupid Superman t-shirt – whatever the fuck it is – holding on tightly, afraid that he'll run away; afraid that he'll disappear.

And she buries her face in his chest, soaking it with her tears and her snot and her failures and fears and doubts and insecurities and regrets. So many regrets. She leaves them all on him.

She just wants the human contact, she tells herself.

Seconds pass like hours and long fingers travel unsure up her back, tenting uncomfortably on the blades of her shoulders, unfurling and pressing flat as her body writhes, racked with grief and self-pity. Splayed fingers across her back press her in close, trying to prevent her from falling – from falling apart.

Her cries pitch higher at the pressure, his awkward offer of consolation, and the sob that hitches in her throat threatens to suffocate her, choke her, and she clamours for air.

Reaching slender arms around his neck, she latches on. He is her life-raft. When the tears dry up – and they will – it is him whom she'll be left clinging to.

And she doesn't even realise that she has fallen asleep, not until she feels herself being jostled awake. Bleary green eyes open slowly, swollen tight, and she sees the blue of his shirt stained with her tears and her snot, and her nose is pressed against his chest. He smells of linen, of lemons, of tears.

_Of Sheldon_.

She turns her chin upwards and sees the cut of his jaw above her head. He is all angles and lines and perfect symmetry.

There is a weightlessness that she cannot explain, and she is floating – floating along somewhere. She presses her ear against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. She is on the wrong side, but she hears it anyway. Steady. Dependable.

Her body lifts, is shifted, shuffled around. A door opens. She moves with him, gliding into the room. He is carrying her – carrying _her_ – inside.

Another dam lifts, and she cries again – harder, louder this time – tightening herself against him. Coiling.

He stops. Pausing, frowning, thinking, processing. He looks down at her with curious blue eyes. Fresh tears stain his shirt, and she knows – she knows – that he is disgusted by it all, mortified. But then he shifts her weight in his arms again and continues walking.

He lowers her gently onto the bed – her bed – and she absently wonders where this grace came from. Did he always possess it? Her body is already reacting to his departure, and she reaches out, clutching at limbs and scraps of clothing – begging, pleading for him not to leave her, to stay with her, to hold her, to run his fingers through her soul—

But he undoes her fingers like clasps, like buttons on a shirt, and he slips away from her, leaving her alone. Leaving her alone. Leaving her...alone.

Terror and self-pity are all that she is left with, and she curls herself up into a tight ball. Crying, wailing, screaming, raging – there is no point in muting herself now. The dams have already been lifted. She needs her release – something to face, something to control, something to fight, something to defeat.

Time flies. Or it doesn't. It remains stagnant like still waters. Measurements could be taken, but she won't.

She opens swollen eyes and sees him standing before her. His hair is damp, just showered. He is dressed in his pyjamas – Saturday pyjamas – and he is staring down at her. Uncomfortable, awkward, and maybe for once – just once – he is worried for her.

She holds out her arms, and she knows she looks pathetic, sounds pathetic, _is_ pathetic. But she needs the human contact. She needs it from someone who won't use it against her, who won't take advantage. She needs it from someone who will walk away the next day and act as though nothing had ever happened. She needs the emotional detachment from her emotional crisis.

She needs _him_.

He squirms, shifts from foot to foot. He gives a resolute shake of his head. He pouts. He fidgets. He offers whispered explanations why, but she just looks at him. And then he stops; he lowers his head, and he begrudgingly relents.

She pulls back the covers, and he slips inside like a praying mantis – all limbs and eerie bug-like coordination. He lies flat on his back, eyes wide, and stiffens when she pulls the covers back up around him, resting her head on his chest.

She wants him to sing Soft Kitty to her, but she can't ask. She wants him to read her mind and instinctively know what she wants. It is impossible and childish, but she curls her fingers into his shirt beneath his pyjama top and she clutches, pulling – pulling the song out of him.

He sits up, and her head slides off his chest down onto the pillow. He looks down at her, frowning, blinking his eyes and pursing his lips.

Open. Close. Open. Close.

She looks up at him pleadingly, and his frown deepens. His pupils dilate, darting from side to side, and she dimly realises that he is somehow trying to know her mind by reading her face, her eyes. But her eyes are swollen, puffy, and red – and her face is splotched and pale. There is nothing to read there except pain and sorrow.

Slowly, he starts – hesitant and unsure – but the song is unmistakable. And her lips, they curl, they twitch upward into a smile. She hooks her arms together around his chest, hugging him in close, and she cries.

He stops, stiffening, wondering if he has done something wrong, if this is not what she wanted. But her hold on him tightens, and she muffles out 'don't stop' into his chest. He frowns but does as she says, singing to her until she hears nothing but the beating of his heart – or hers or both. She is not sure any more.

It is early morning when she wakes, and she is clutching at a body that isn't there.

It is what she wanted, she tells herself, frowning: the emotional detachment. But the absence of warmth next to her leaves her feeling empty inside, and her stomach drops. Fresh tears sting at her eyes.

Then there's a shift, a dip, an incoherent mumble. She turns over, tears dripping onto her pillow, and she sees him.

He is at the edge of her bed, on his back. The covers are pulled up to his chin, and he smacks his lips, mumbling about something – some equation, some theory, some nonsensical formula – or maybe he is whispering about The Flash. It doesn't matter. She smiles.

She smiles.

Turning over onto her side, she inches closer – just close enough to feel him but not to disturb him. She wants to curl into him. She wants to ask him if things will always be like this for her. Will she always fail at everything she does? Will it always be this hard? Will she ever find herself?

But he is sleeping so soundly and is looking so peaceful, like a child, that she cannot bring herself to disturb him.

For once – just once – she leaves him be, asking nothing, taking nothing.

He is here for her in his own way, and that is all she really needs right now. Maybe it is all she ever needed.

And so she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep, slowly extending her fingers to touch at the hem of his sleeve.

Contact.

It is something.

In the morning, she will deal. But for now – just once – this is enough.

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The Comfort Challenge

**Prompt: **Penny is having a bad day, and she needs a shoulder to cry on. The only shoulder in sight, however, is Sheldon's.

**Challenge: **Incorporate the following quote into your fic, via dialogue or narration (however you like): "Run your fingers through my soul. For once, just once, feel exactly what I feel, believe what I believe, perceive as I perceive, look, experience, examine, and for once; just once, understand." (Anonymous)

**Word Count: **2,073

Written for FFN's Paradox Forum. Please visit our site: http : / / forum . fanfiction . net / forum / Paradox_A_PennySheldon_Shippers_Forum / 55628 /


	2. Divisible By Two

_Clearly, he's a genius_

_If she only knew it._

_But somewhere in her radius,_

_He really blew it._

**-x-**

**Divisible By Two**

"_You know, Sheldon – for a genius, you can be pretty damn stupid!" _

It has been fifty-eight hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty seconds since Penny slammed the door shut in Sheldon's face. And since then, he has measured time like a heartbeat: counting down the seconds until he is able to formulate a hypothesis, to reach a general conclusion. He is a genius, after all, so it shouldn't be difficult. But he has no earthly notion of what he has done wrong, of what social custom he has broken or has failed to adhere to. And the lack of a viable theory troubles him immensely.

For eighteen seconds, Sheldon stands in front of Penny's door, flabbergasted. He spends an additional four seconds pondering whether or not he should knock. He decides not to – out of fear or out of uncertainty – and he turns around to head back inside his own apartment, carrying his laundry inside.

Forty-two minutes pass in undisturbed silence as Sheldon sits at his spot on the sofa, a basket of folded laundry lying at his feet. Staring ahead at nothing in particular, he writes phantom equations on the invisible whiteboard of his mind. He notes the time with his watch and rises to his feet with a sigh, carrying his laundry into his room, getting ready for bed.

Sleep does not find him, though, so he lies awake – tossing, turning, thinking, worrying. Ten-thousand and eight-hundred seconds are spent staring at the ceiling, replaying scenes over and over again in his mind: convincing Penny to wear the black wig (because in what universe was Wonder Woman blonde?); assuring her that she doesn't look fat but beefy (Wonder Woman was an Amazon, after all); going over to her apartment the next day after laundry, thanking her for coming with them and informing her that she had made an adequate heroine. But instead of being appreciative or humbled, she screams at him – screams at him for eight agonising and infuriating seconds before she slams the door in his face.

Alone.

And so he lies slumberless – with thoughts of Penny troubling his mind. He rises from bed, with its sheets wrinkled from restless slumber, and takes eighteen steps from his bedroom into the kitchen. Pouring himself a cup of milk, he places the mug in the microwave: one-hundred and twenty seconds at one-hundred and eighty degrees Fahrenheit.

He has been at the whiteboard for ten minutes before Leonard walks in. The shorter physicist's eyes are crinkled from sleep, his fingers lazily tangle in his curly, dishevelled hair.

He asks Sheldon what is wrong, and the marker in Sheldon's hand lowers for a second before he brings it back up to the board, scrawling formulaic equations. When done, he absently assures Leonard that he, Dr Sheldon Lee Cooper, is a genius and he will figure everything out on his own.

Mumbling to himself, Leonard goes back to bed, leaving Sheldon alone.

Sheldon does not figure it out.

**-x-**

Three-hundred and twenty minutes and twenty seconds of restless sleep – with no chance of a proper REM cycle – Sheldon shuffles out of bed, exhausted. Showered, shaved, and teeth brushed, he pours himself a bowl of cereal with milk – eighteen-hundred seconds have elapsed. 

He sits at his spot, dipping the spoon in the bowl, and he stares at his whiteboard – glancing up at equations that mock him with their lack of a definitive answer, a probable cause or understanding.

Ten minutes pass, and with soggy fibre in a bowl, he takes it over to the kitchen sink, dumping its contents inside. Washing, drying, cleaning up – forty seconds have flown by and he finds himself back at the whiteboard: erasing, rewriting, bent on finding an answer.

When lunch rolls around, he has fallen asleep on the sofa, only to be shaken awake by Leonard. His best friend persists – curious to know what Sheldon's equations are for, why Penny's name is on the whiteboard, and what sort obsession has now seized the scientist's deeply troubled mind.

Sheldon insists, for forty-two seconds, that he is not researching String Theory, robotic mechanics, adamantium technology, or how to populate the tenants of 2311 North Los Robles apartment building with drapes-jumping felines. And so, after two minutes of emphatic reasoning and speculative hawing, Leonard manages to convince Sheldon to confess his source of madness.

A hurried explanation tumbles past Sheldon's lips, explaining how he had gone over to Penny's apartment to thank her for joining them at the comic book store on New Years Eve; how she had slammed the door in his face and told him that for a genius he was quote: 'pretty damn stupid', end quote.

He, Dr Sheldon Lee Cooper, PhD, was stupid. _Stupid_.

In response, Leonard spends thirty-eight seconds asking Sheldon what else he had done or said wrong to Penny. Sheldon replies with 'nothing'. Two seconds of dispassionate shrugging and twiddling his thumbs, Leonard suggests that Sheldon go over and apologise to their neighbour.

Sheldon, pausing for exactly four seconds, ponders Leonard's suggestion before prompting the question of what he has to apologise for.

Four more seconds pass and Leonard shrugs, heading to the kitchen to make his lunch.

The rest of the day passes agonisingly slow, so slow that he only absently counts the hours, and Sheldon has come no closer to solving his Penny's Anger Equation than he had twenty-four hours ago.

**-x-**

Eight hours and fifteen minutes of restless sleep, five minutes to eat cereal, a half an hour of personal grooming, and a forty minute drive to work – well, Leonard drives; Sheldon sits. Thoughts of Penny still linger, latched onto his brain like a parasite.

Work only distracts him for so long (two hours and four minutes) before he is creating a new algorithm to suss out Penny's hormonal cycle: a possible explanation for her outburst and irrational behaviour. He does not discount syphilis, typhoid fever, or the hypothesis that she is transforming into a zombie. However, it has only been a day and a half, and she has yet to develop zombie-like symptoms.

He begrudgingly strikes the latter off the board, but leaves the former two.

The alarm on his watch sounds, signalling that it is time for him to join the others at lunch in the cafeteria. But instead of going, he continues to work on his formulas – his Penny formulas: why is she upset, what has he done to incur her wrath, and is it possible that Penny is in possession of black kryptonite? The latter seems unlikely since it is highly improbable that she is Superman. Superwoman, maybe, but certainly not Superman...

He hesitates to strike this from the list.

Sheldon is also positive that he hasn't done anything wrong: he hasn't woke her up before 11AM in ages, nor has he issued a strike against her. On Penny's end, there is nothing to support a mental breakdown: she isn't lacking sex (she has Zack to fulfil her carnal needs), and her menstrual cycle has yet to begin. Pregnancy is another doubtful option since she is on birth control (he has checked). Besides, even if she is pregnant, it is far too early for mood swings.

Two-hundred and twenty later and an extremely quiet car ride home (forty minutes), Sheldon charges ahead of Leonard to open the door, immediately going to his work area to opens up his Alienware laptop.

He is in research mode: it takes thirty-six minutes and six seconds to obtain the appropriate empirical data. Five more minutes are spent analysing the statistical data and then summarily dismissed. In twenty seconds, Sheldon comes to the conclusion that an alternate form of methodology is needed: qualitative over quantitative.

Sixty minutes and two phone calls later, the boys are assembled in the living room with tangerine chicken, and questionnaires are handed out with number two pencils.

They look at Sheldon askance.

Time ticks by.

Like heartbeats.

Frustrated, individually – in unison – they tell Sheldon to apologise to Penny. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know why he should apologise; he just should.

Bitches be crazy.

Tangerine chicken is abandoned in favour of the whiteboard, which Sheldon takes into his room, leaving the boys with their questionnaires – which he knows they won't fill out. It doesn't matter. He will figure it out on his own. He is a genius, after all.

Four-hundred and eighty seconds pass, and Sheldon hears a familiar, lilting voice – female. Penny is inside the apartment talking with the boys, and he waits in his room – afraid to come out. He can't – not until he has discovered the reason for Penny's anger, and his solution.

Two hours tick by, and Sheldon is beginning to slow down – his body is shutting down. He hears the door close, and it is quiet in the apartment. He yawns, trying desperately to work on his formulas while listening for Leonard in the living room. He hears rustling, the bathroom door closing, lights switched off.

Sheldon waits until he hears Leonard in bed. He doesn't want to talk to any one. He feels ill.

Six minutes go by, and Leonard shuts the door to his room. Sheldon waits forty-eight seconds and then sneaks into the bathroom: brushes his teeth, voids his bowels, and washes his face. He does not take a shower. He feels too weak to stand.

Four-hundred and eighty seconds: Sheldon is changing into his Monday pyjamas and climbing into bed. He lays awake, blinking. Six-hundred and forty seconds pass, and he hears Leonard's door open. Soft footsteps tread down the hall. There's a knock on his door.

Sheldon answers, and Leonard opens the door, standing inside the archway. He implores Sheldon to go over to Penny's apartment to apologise, regardless of whether or not he did anything wrong, did anything to upset her.

Sheldon tells Leonard that it is bed time and that he is in his pyjamas and that no one is allowed in his room.

Leonard turns to leave but tells Sheldon that Penny was asking for him.

Sheldon waits twenty seconds and then folds backs his sheets and gets out of bed.

It is forty-eight long steps from Sheldon's room to Penny's apartment door. He raises his fist and is prepared to knock. Two seconds pass, then five, then ten. His hand is frozen, mid-knock. He can't do it.

He hears movement from inside, and the door opens wide. Penny is looking up at him, and he blinks rapidly, licking his lips as she stares at him. His heart beats loudly in his chest. He counts the beats.

One-two.

Three-four.

Five-six.

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She frowns and is about to open her mouth when he finally decides to react.

Sheldon runs away.

**-x-**

He wakes up at quarter to one again. He is covered in a thin layer of perspiration. His cheeks are hot and flushed. His mouth his dry, and he tastes salt at the back of his throat.

He is sick_**.**_

Eighteen minutes go by: he leaves a message at work, calling in sick. He texts Leonard to tell him he won't be going in.

He doesn't ask for soup or grilled cheese sandwiches or a glass or water or his bucket underneath the bathroom since. He just lays in bed, counting down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until he drifts off to sleep

She enters his room soundlessly, and when she bends down to shakes his shoulders, he barely moves, barely reacts. He just opens his eyes and turns his head, glancing at the clock: 6:26:40AM.

It has been fifty-eight hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty seconds since Penny had slammed the door shut in Sheldon's face – fifty-eight hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty seconds since she had last talked to him.

That is two-hundred and ten thousand and four hundred seconds, divisible by two.

"I got a text from Leonard telling me that you were sick," she says, sitting beside him on the bed.

He gingerly sits up and glances past her shoulder.

"Where's Leonard?" he asks, his voice soft and weak.

Penny frowns. "He disappeared the moment you texted him that you were sick."

He clears his throat, and she turns her head. It is then that she notices the whiteboard in his room, and she sees her name written all over it.

"What's this?"

Sheldon fidgets.

"I've been trying to figure out why you're upset with me, what I've done wrong."

She looks at him quizzically.

"I've racked my brain for the past fifty-eight hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty seconds – give or take a few hours for sleep – to try to come up a theory to explain why you slammed your door in my face."

"Sheldon..."

"And I don't know what I did wrong," he says with a panic-stricken lilt to his voice, "but I must have done something horrible because now you hate me and that makes me..." He pauses. "That makes me sad."

Sheldon lets out a shuddering sigh, and Penny puts a hand to his forehead. He does not flinch, but rather he sinks back into his bed.

"I'm sorry Penny," he says softly, meekly, "I'm sorry for whatever I did to upset you, but mostly I'm sorry for not knowing what I did wrong."

She is silent for a moment, and he counts the seconds until she speaks again.

"I was upset about Leonard and Zack and..." She pauses, her voice hitching in her throat. "And I just wanted you to be there for me, as a friend."

"How was I to know that Penny, unless you asked me?" he asks, his eyes wide and blue. "I'm not a telepathic...not yet."

She laughs, a single tear rolling down her cheek, and she reaches out to smooth down his hair with her hand.

"You're right," she says, "and I'm sorry. I was upset at the time, and I took it out on you."

Sheldon looks up at her, hopeful. "So, you're not mad at me any more?"

Penny shakes her head. "I never was – not really." She leans down and plants a chaste kiss on his forehead, like his mother used to when she put him to bed at night. "I'm sorry I put you through this, Sheldon."

"Apology accepted."

Content that he has been forgiven and that he now has an answer, Sheldon begins to drift off to sleep, not bothering to kick Penny out. Instead, she stays and sings Soft Kitty to him, and he smiles – it is a boyish smile.

Before she leaves, he gingerly touches her hand, delirious, and tells her that he did learn one thing from this experience: it's all divisible by two.

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Genius Challenge

**Prompt:** Genius (song by Duncan Sheik)

**Challenge:** Write a drabble or fic based on the song above, but do not turn it into a song fic. You may incorporate some of the lyrics, but try to maintain the mood.

**Word Count: **2,638

**Author Notes: **I am by no means a mathematician, but this idea struck my fancy. My apologies if it reads boring. I wanted to capture the essence of his obsession.

*The epigraph is modified lyrics from the song Genius by Duncan Sheik.

Written for FFN's Paradox Forum. Please visit our site: http : / / forum . fanfiction . net / forum / Paradox_A_PennySheldon_Shippers_Forum / 55628 /


	3. Pour Some Sugar on Sheldon

_Warning: This ficlet is rated M._

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_I_'_m hot, sticky sweet  
From my head to my feet, yeah _

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**Pour Some Sugar On Sheldon**

It was one of those rare Indian summers that only came once every decade. Penny had ever experienced it once back in Nebraska. She remembered lying on top of the covers on her bed, with two fans trained on her. It was hot then, to be sure. In California, though, the heat seemed to be its own entity, combining with the smog to pin her down like a UFC champion.

Penny wished that she could afford air-conditioning (and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride). Unfortunately, she would have to suffer through the sweltering heat. It couldn't be avoided. Sure, she could dip into her shoe fund, but that was crazy talk. She had lots of water and tank tops and short shorts. She also had the nicely air-conditioned Cheesecake Factory. Plus, there was Leonard and Sheldon's apartment next door. She could steal their cold. Sheldon's talk of her being a freeloader be damned!

The moment Penny opened the door to apartment 4A, she was hit with a gust of cool air, and she stood in the doorway, grinning like an idiot.

"Still not paying for air-conditioning?" Sheldon asked absently from his spot on the sofa, not bothering to look up from his laptop.

"Yes, Sheldon," she breathed, closing the door behind her, "I'm a freeloader." Her good mood was broken.

"Yes, that's obvious," Sheldon said, finally glancing up as he closed his laptop. "However, I did want to tell you that we may have a solution for your air-conditioning woes."

Penny's mood instantly brightened. "Really? What is it?"

"A car wash!" Leonard announced happily, clapping his hands.

He, Raj, and Howard were all sitting at the kitchen table playing cards.

"A car wash?" Penny asked, wondering how the hell a car wash would help her get air-conditioning.

"My uncle owns a gas station on Walnut Street," Howard said, turning around to leer at Penny. "He said that we could hold a car wash there on the weekend."

Penny furrowed her brow and brought her hands together. "Yeah, I'm still not following."

"The money we'd raise for the car wash would go towards paying your central air bill," Leonard explained innocently, while Raj, who was sitting next to him, nodded in silence – giving a thumbs up to Penny.

Lowering her hands to her side, Penny glanced over at Sheldon, as if for confirmation. "You really think we'd raise enough money for that?"

Howard snorted. "Hot women dressed in bikinis getting wet and soapy on cars? Who_ wouldn't_ pay for that?"

Penny tongued the inside of her cheek, giving Howard a disgusted look. "Hot women, huh?"

Raj leaned forward, whispering in Howard's ear.

"We assumed that you'd get some of your girlfriends to help," Howard said, looking back at Raj, who was emphatically nodding his head.

"Right"

"Of course, we'd help, too," Leonard offered with a shaky laugh, smiling awkwardly.

"In bikinis, too?" Penny asked airily, crossing her arms over her chest.

Leonard, Howard, and Raj exchanged glances.

"We'd get everything set up," Leonard said with an upward inflection. "I doubt anyone would want to see _us_—" he pointed to the three of them with his thumb "—get soaped up."

"Actually," Howard said, looking slightly nervous. "There's a gay bar down the street from the gas station…"

Penny shook her head and then glanced over at Sheldon. "If you think we'll make some money on this, then I'll do it."

"Penny, Penny, Penny," Sheldon said in a patronising tone. "We'll be using _my_ business model. Of course it will be a success."

Pursing her lips, Penny clapped her hands together and smiled. "Okay, then. I'm in!"

**-x-**

It was a sweltering hot Saturday and though Penny wasn't the kind of girl who walked around half naked (in public), she was glad for the bikini and the cold water hose. Her girlfriends were already washing half a dozen cars with close to a dozen cars waiting in line. It really was a fabulous idea of Sheldon's (and thoughtful), and she had already made over a hundred dollars in just a few hours. Thank God she had hot girlfriends. The boys weren't exactly much to look at – that is until Howard showed up with a rather peculiarly dressed Sheldon.

"Sheldon," Penny spat, choking on her own phlegm, as she looked the tall brunet up and down, "where did you get those pants?"

He was wearing skin-tight _white_ jeans. White! If they had been any other colour, she would have thought he looked downright sexy.

Wait-a-minute, did she just think that Sheldon looked _sexy_?

"Wolowitz took me shopping," Sheldon said in a low voice, almost growling, shaking Penny from her reverie.

"Alright," Penny said, stifling a laugh. "Let's get to work then, Def Leppard."

Sheldon gave a double-take and then glanced around the parking lot, furrowing his brow so high that it disappeared into his hairline.

"There are leopards here?" he asked in a panicky voice. "_Deaf_ leopards?"

Penny was about to explain to him that Def Leppard was a band, when the lanky physicists collided into her, almost bowling her over.

"Sheldon!" she hissed, regaining her balance. "Watch where you're going!"

"There's a leopard around here!" he lisped, hurriedly pushing her forward. "We need to call animal control!"

"Sheldon!" Penny said, feeling herself being pulled away. "There's no leopard. Def Leppard is the name of a band."

"Oh," Sheldon said in relief, stopping in his tracks and then curiously glancing down at Penny. "Why did you call me Deaf Leopard then?"

"'Cause you're dressed like a member of the band: tight, white jeans, tight top. All that's missing is the long hair."

As Penny giggled to herself, she couldn't help but let her eyes travel downward… and linger. Sheldon was an exceptionally lean man, but he was sinewy in some areas, with his long, muscular forearms. She had always focussed on his hands (pianist hands) and his forearms – secretly, of course. She had, however, never let her eyes wander below the belt, mainly because Sheldon's attire never really drew her attention there. But his tight, white pants, which left nothing to the imagination, were all that she could focus on.

"It's hard to move in these infernal jeans," Sheldon said suddenly, adjusting them. "They're so tight."

Penny blinked, nodding her head in agreement. Over what, she wasn't quite sure – she was still daydreaming about Sheldon's body below the belt. In fact, all she could think about was how Sheldon could walk around with that _package_ all day long – and he wasn't even hard. At least, she didn't think he was.

"And very white," she said almost dreamily, wondering how she could find out if that bulge in his pants wasn't a roll of quarters.

"Penny?"

Penny glanced up, seeing Sheldon's mouth moving.

"Yeah?"

Sheldon frowned. "I asked you if you were going to fill this bucket."

He pointed to a bucket filled with soap and then drew his finger to the hose that laid beside it. Of course Sheldon wasn't going to do this himself. Manual labour was demeaning. She should have been annoyed by this. Instead, she decided to play it to her advantage.

Leaning down, Penny picked the hose and grinned. "Hey, Sheldon," she said, levelling the nozzle at his crotch. "Hold your breath."

"Wha—"

She pressed the lever and a spurt of cool water jettisoned from the nozzle. Sheldon screamed, holding his hands out in front as Penny assaulted him with the hose. Spraying him from head to toe, Penny was simply agog, laughing wholeheartedly as he sputtered, spitting streams of water out of his mouth.

"You're certainly not cold," Penny said with a Cheshire grin, checking out Sheldon's translucent pants. Lord, he was huge – and she could see _everything_!

When she let go of the lever, Sheldon screamed her name, opening his bright blue eyes. A look of pure anger was plastered across his face, and he lunged forward, dripping with water. Deftly snatching the hose from her hands, he gripped it tightly aimed the nozzle at her chest. She let out a pre-emptive scream and braced herself.

Penny's bikini top was flimsy, but the force of the water was not. With the nozzle aimed only a foot or so away from her chest, it knocked her back, as well as blew off her top. Her hands immediately flew to her chest, covering her exposed breasts.

"Sheldon!" she shrieked, the water fight losing its charm. "My top!"

Sheldon immediately released the lever and dropped the hose. He furtively looked about the ground for her top. Spotting it, he dashed over to pick it up. As he handed it to her, a frightened look on his face, she scowled, swatting it out of his hand.

"I can't just put it on here in from of everyone," she hissed, and Sheldon licked his lips nervously. "Give me your shirt!"

Moving on his feet, as though not quite sure of what he should be doing, he almost considered running away until Penny growled his name. He reluctantly complied, peeling off his soaking wet shirt, which was thankfully not white. As he made to hand it to her, she snapped at him, drawing her hands more tightly across her breasts, lifting them up.

"You have to put it on me," she told him behind gritted teeth, glancing around to see the ogling customers.

Swallowing hard, Sheldon gave her the same look he had given her when he helped her dress after she had dislocated her shoulder.

"Do you want me to close my eyes?"

"No, I don't want you to close your eyes!" she snapped. "Just stand right up against me, so my chest is touching yours."

He licked his lips, looking as though he was about to bolt, but he didn't. Instead, he took a hesitant step forward and pressed his chest against hers. Dropping her hands, Penny felt her breasts pressed into his sternum, and she shuddered, feeling her nipples harden against his soft skin. He brought a large hand to her back and pulled her in closer, causing her to let out a small squeak. She could feel the wetness and the hardness of his body pressed against hers, and she closed her eyes.

"Raise your arms," he ordered softly, and she complied.

He raised the shirt above her head and managed to hold it out so that she could slip her arms inside. Pushing the shirt down, which caused her to shift off him, Sheldon pulled her back into him with a grunt as he smoothed the wet shirt along her hips.

Licking her lips, Penny tilted her chin and looked up. His deep blue eyes were focused on her, his chest slowly rising and falling – and she felt her own do the same. Batting her lashes almost coquettishly, she reached up – instinct taking hold – and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her.

Their lips touched, and it was like red lightning, exploding behind her closed eyes and tingling on her parted lips. His hands came to her waist, long fingers digging in and pulling her towards his hips. She let out a gasp as she felt his hardness press into her stomach, poking her with a sense of urgency. His tongue darted into her mouth, and she felt the air in her lungs being sucked out. Her head was light, dizzy; her mind was swimming with naughty thoughts—

_Pour some sugar on me  
Ooh, in the name of love… _

Penny woke up with a start, her alarm blaring Def Leppard in her ear. Small beads of sweat were rolling down her temples, and she was finding it hard to breathe. She brought her fingers to her lips – they felt numb, as though she had just been kissed.

She had just had an erotic dream about Sheldon! Sheldon in tight, white pants – wet, tight, white pants.

Her hands flew to her flushed face where she repeated 'Oh my God' over and over again until her voice was hoarse. She threw back the bedsheets and ran to the bathroom, turning the tap to the shower on cold – _very_ cold. As the cool jets of water massaged her face and back, she tried very hard not to think of a naked Sheldon – a sexy, well-endowed Sheldon.

Crap on a cracker!

Slowly, Penny's heartbeat began to return to its normal rhythm, and she rested her forehead against the tiled wall. She did have to admit that Sheldon did look rather fetching in jeans. Yes, rather fetching. Turning off the tap, Penny smiled to herself and stepped out of the tub, grabbing a towel. She'd have to buy Sheldon a pair of jeans for his birthday. Dark blue jeans, though, not white.

* * *

Written for the **Paradox Kink Meme** on LJ.

**Prompt: **Sheldon in white jeans; Penny with a hose.


End file.
